


Repentance

by LollipopCop



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Crying, Eventual Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Hugging, John Has Issues, John-centric, Johnlock Roulette, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Compliant with The Final Problem, Post Series/Season 04 Fix-it, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-09-24 06:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9707135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LollipopCop/pseuds/LollipopCop
Summary: John cannot understand why Sherlock even wants to look at him after the horrible way he acted, and his guilt is destroying him. Why doesn’t Sherlock snap at him, scream at him, treat him the way he deserves?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all. If you want a fic where John completely hates himself and has an emotional breakdown, here you are! :D There's definitely fluff at the end, though. I don't like leaving our boys sad.  
> I hope you enjoy~~
> 
> EDIT: I'M SO SORRY I ACCIDENTALLY UPLOADED THIS TWICE!!!! BOTH VERSIONS WERE THE SAME I JUST FUCKED UP

While things appeared to be healing on the surface, with Sherlock tentatively wrapping his arms around him, and then going out for cake to celebrate his birthday, John knew things weren’t right between them. He figured that was to be expected, considering everything they had gone through, individually and together, but even when Sherlock would give him one of his small, genuine smiles, John would not and felt as if he _could_ not smile back. It all felt so _wrong_ , and he knew the only person to blame was himself. He thought it would have gotten better with time, but a week after Sherlock’s birthday, John felt worse.

He wanted to scream.

He couldn’t, though. He had Rosie back in the flat with him now, and he refused to lose his temper in front of his child. She didn’t deserve to see him unhappy. Hell, she didn’t deserve to have such a horrible human being as a father, but John had to try to be better. He already acted deplorably when he handed his child, his own flesh and blood, off to his friends because he couldn’t get his shit together. How could he do that? She was his baby, and he tossed her aside while his head was up his arse. Admittedly, he never thought he would become a father in the first place, but he didn’t think he would be so shit at it. He wasn’t the only one suffering; Rosie lost her mother. It was his responsibility to be there for her, and he failed. Not anymore, though.

John was glad Rosie was too young to remember any of this down the road.

He was holding her now, as she slept against his chest, little hands clenched into fists and the sound of her even breaths filling John’s ears. It was past midnight, and he really should have put her in her crib, but the warmth and weight of her body against his heart was the only source of physical comfort he’d felt since Sherlock’s strong hands cupped the back of his neck and shoulder. John swallowed thickly. _Sherlock._ No. He couldn’t think of Sherlock now. He was supposed to be trying to fall asleep now.

But John couldn’t sleep in this flat anymore, not when every inch of the flat reminded him of his life with Mary. John’s jaw clenched and he struggled not to ball his hands into fists and accidentally awaken or hurt Rosie. That was _another_ thing. He didn’t miss Mary, and felt like a horrible person for it. He didn’t yearn for her presence at all; he felt haunted by it. He knew what grief felt like. He grieved Sherlock for two long, agonizing years. He had wanted Sherlock back so badly it felt like he couldn’t breathe most days. He left 221B after Sherlock faked his death because he couldn’t handle it, couldn’t handle sitting across from the empty chair in the sitting room and the silence stabbing his eardrums. He felt suffocated by anguish. But now, he wanted to get the fuck away from this flat and never look back. He wanted to slam the door shut on this chapter of his life and forget all about Mary and everything associated with her. He should have felt more grief for his wife than his best friend, right? He wasn’t the person Mary thought he was, and he hated that.

John’s throat was tight and he realized a hot tear was sliding down his face. He took deep, shuddering breaths. He didn’t want to cry while he was holding Rosie. He knew what he wanted to do: he wanted to move back into Baker Street. Would Sherlock take him back, after everything he’d done? Would Sherlock want to live with a baby? John had been going over these questions 24/7 over the past four days. He didn’t know if it were right of him, but tomorrow, John was going to ask. He couldn’t take living in this flat anymore.

And he hated himself for it.

* * *

 

John walked up the steps of 221B quietly. Well, he was quiet. Rosie, on the other hand, was babbling away in his arms. He opened the door to see Sherlock standing by the window, violin and bow in his hands.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “John, hello.”

“Hi,” he said awkwardly. “Er, sorry I didn’t call or text or anything, but can I talk to you?” His heart was hammering so hard, it nauseated him. If Sherlock rejected him, he didn’t know what he would do. He would go find another flat to live in, obviously, but if Sherlock wouldn’t take him and Rosie in, then their fractured relationship would sever completely. _Why should he take you back?_ _You beat him. Look at him. He’s not even healed._

John looked, and the cut on Sherlock’s eyebrow from his knuckles was still there. He swallowed again, bile threatening to rise up his esophagus.

“Of course we can talk,” Sherlock said, the surprise in his eyes replaced with concern. “John, is something the matter?”

He couldn’t lose it in front of Sherlock. Not again. He didn’t deserve his comfort. “Not exactly, um, well, hold on. Let me set her down.” He put Rosie down on the carpet, taking her bag off his shoulder and pulling out a few of her toys. He grabbed her teething ring and stuck it in her mouth, completely oblivious. John stood up straight and looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock put his violin away and looked at John expectantly. He was clean-shaven and showered, now, no longer looking greasy and haggard. He looked better than a week ago, certainly, but he was still too thin, his cheekbones too prominent, and he looked weak. John didn’t know how the hell he wasn’t going through the pains of withdrawal, considering all of the shit he had taken. He didn’t want to ask about the details of Sherlock’s drug use, but he did want to know _why_ he did it. Mary told Sherlock to put himself through hell so John could save him--what kind of plan was that? And was nearly dying of an overdose the only option?!

“John?”

John realized his hands were shaking. He had to control himself. He couldn’t let himself feel rage, not in front of Rosie, and not in front of Sherlock ever again. He wondered if Sherlock had bruises on his ribs underneath his suit. He cleared his throat sharply. _Get to the point._ “I--I’m really sorry to ask this of you, believe me.” His palms were sweating. He sighed. “Sherlock, I can’t stay in that bloody flat anymore. It’s too much. Please, can I--Rosie and I--stay with you?” He braced himself.

Sherlock’s lips parted and his light eyes softened immediately. “Of course, John,” he said emphatically. “You needn’t ask. You two are always welcome here.”

John wanted to _scream._ Why? Why was Sherlock taking him back? Why didn’t Sherlock stand up to him, shout at him, tell him off for being the worst friend in existence? Why didn’t he say that things could never be the same between them, and that John ran out of second chances? Why was this man so _kind?_

John cleared his throat again, nodding. “Thank you,” he said gruffly. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was watching him curiously. He was wearing a dark blue shirt underneath his suit jacket, bringing out the blue in his eyes, and he was so beautiful John ached. How could he lay a hand on this man? How could Sherlock not be angry?!

Sherlock blinked and frowned, taking a small step forward. “John, you aren’t all right,” he said carefully. “Would you tell me what’s wrong?”

There he goes, offering more compassion than John ever deserved. He needed to get out before he exploded. “It’s been a rough day,” he said vaguely, proud of himself when his voice didn’t tremble.

Rosie threw her toy across the room, startling them both and breaking the tension. John almost breathed a sigh of relief. _Good girl._

“When are you planning on moving in?” Sherlock asked.

John bit his lip. “Um, as soon as possible?”

And Sherlock, god damn him, his plush lips pulled up into a grin. “I see. I can phone my brother to have his people assist you.”

“Why would government agents help me move?”

“Mycroft owes me a favor.”

The things Sherlock would do for him. “That sounds good, yeah. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sherlock said, and took his phone out of his pocket and dialed Mycroft’s number.

John looked down at Rosie, who was sucking her fist happily. He took a steadying breath. This would be good for them. He just had to figure out how to look Sherlock in the eye without feeling guilty.

* * *

 

John and Rosie didn’t have a lot of possessions, so by the end of the next day, they were moved into Baker Street with Rosie’s crib in John’s room. He knew it would be bad for her, because she needed to learn to sleep on her own, but this was the only viable option. He thought the problem could have been avoided if he shared a room with Sherlock, and kicked himself. That would never happen. Sherlock didn’t want him that way, and John absolutely could not blame him.

They spent the next three days not quite sure how to behave around each other, John mainly taking care of Rosie, and Sherlock more or less keeping to himself. It seemed like neither of them knew how to live together anymore. The last time John lived in this flat was when Sherlock was recovering from Mary's bullet. The thought squeezed John’s heart.

John shouldn't have gone back to her, and Sherlock didn’t know why he wasn’t angry about this, either. She shot him, and John stayed married to her until his death. He didn’t even know why. He didn’t love her by the end. There were too many lies, and John wished he never met her.

But then, there was Rosie. John regretted the choices he made with Mary, but he didn't regret Rosie. He couldn’t. Still, he could have divorced Mary right after she shot Sherlock and gotten joint custody of Rosie. John had been thinking of doing that, when he was feeling completely fed up with married life, but then Mary got killed. He never had a chance to make things right, not by telling Mary that he was unfaithful (he didn’t love her, but he did make weddings vows), and not by leaving her for what she did to Sherlock. He felt like he failed every aspect of his life since Sherlock jumped in 2012.

These were the thoughts which occupied his mind, creating uncomfortable silences when he was around Sherlock. He didn't want to act this way, because he could tell Sherlock felt awkward and unsure of himself around John, choosing his words carefully, being polite but distant. John couldn't stop feeling so miserable, though.

Even when Sherlock was recovering from a bullet wound, things were happier then than now.

John was brushing his teeth before bed, and he felt acutely aware of Sherlock’s presence on the other side of the door. He spit in the sink and rinsed out his mouth, glancing over at the door. It was dark on the other side of the semi-transparent glass. Was Sherlock sleeping already? He did seem more tired than usual, but that was probably because his body was still recovering from weeks of being high on god-knows-what. John remembered all of those times back when they lived together and he was tempted to go into Sherlock’s room, slip into his bed and start kissing and touching him. He always wondered what would have happened. It was completely out of the question now, and yet John found his hand wrapped around the door handle.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. He should have gone to bed, but although they were under the same roof, he missed Sherlock. Things were a far cry from the domesticity they shared before he fell. Without entirely knowing why, John opened the door as quietly as he could, only wide enough to poke his head in, the light from the bathroom casting a glow on the carpet.

Confirming his suspicion, Sherlock was asleep, lying on his side facing the door. John’s chest clenched painfully at the sight of him. The blankets were pulled up to Sherlock’s chin, his curls were tousled and fluffy like a dandelion, and he was snoring quietly out his open mouth. He looked ridiculously young, and that made John realize how much tension and pain Sherlock must have carried with him throughout the day to make him look older. Not that Sherlock looked old while he was awake, but fast asleep with the lines of his face smoothed out, he looked like a bloody high school student, and John was reminded of how devastatingly young he looked when they first met. He remembered how Sherlock’s eyes were always bright and he used to jump around like an excited toddler when he had a good case. Sherlock was dimmed now, quieter, and it was because of _John._ He aged this beautiful creature.

A hard lump in his throat was preventing John from breathing. He shut the door carefully and left the bathroom, almost fleeing upstairs to his room. He shut the door behind him and slapped a hand over his mouth, a gasping sob leaving his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut. He climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, memories of how happy and youthful Sherlock had been flashing behind his eyes. When Rosie started to fuss half past 5, John realized he didn’t sleep for a single minute.

* * *

 

A week passed uneventfully, John still unsure of what to even say to Sherlock anymore, and Sherlock working on various experiments. John got the impression Sherlock was walking on eggshells around him, and he hated that. This was Sherlock’s home; if he were uncomfortable, he had the right to say something to John.

So why _didn’t_ he?

Today, John had left Rosie with Sherlock while he went to Tesco to pick up a few things. When he came back, he heard Sherlock’s deep voice murmuring above high-pitched babbling. John walked upstairs, head cocked to the side curiously. He came into the sitting room, but Sherlock must not have heard him. He was standing in front of the window, holding Rosie by his hips, and pointing to the people down below. He was still in his red dressing gown from this morning, and Rosie was still in her fluffy elephant pajamas. She was looking at Sherlock with interest.

“That lady, see? She’s going through a difficult breakup and is using food as a coping mechanism.”

“Uh?” Rosie asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “Silly, isn’t it?”

Rosie reached up a tiny hand and tugged at one of the curls by Sherlock’s ears.

He made a _tsk_ sound and removed her hand. His hand looked gigantic compared to hers. “Now, now, you know that isn’t nice,” he reprimanded. “Your daddy wouldn’t like that.”

She tugged his hair again.

Sherlock sighed tiredly. “Honestly, Rosie, you can’t expect to learn how to deduce if you keep pulling my hair.”

He was teaching her. Deducing was the most important aspect of Sherlock’s life, and he wanted to pass it down to Rosie. John’s grip tightened around the plastic bags in his hands. Sherlock didn’t merely tolerate Rosie; he genuinely seemed to like her and want to interact with her.

Rosie whined, most likely upset that she couldn’t pull on the thick curls in front of her, and Sherlock made a soft shushing sound. He began to bounce her a bit, and John’s lip trembled. The image in front of him pleased him more than any time he had looked at Mary holding Rosie. That wasn’t right. Mary was her mother. He should have loved the mother of his child.

Right? Or, no. He married her and had a child with her, but by the end, John could not stand the sight of her. That wasn’t right, but she wasn’t an ordinary person. She was an assassin. She did nothing but lie and hurt others. He shouldn’t have felt guilty over not loving her. He should hate her.

Right?

He was so fucking confused that his head pounded, pain pulsing behind his eyeballs.

Suddenly, Sherlock turned around.

Rosie smiled at John and began kicking her feet.

John cleared his throat and started to walk into the kitchen, trying to function through the fog in his head. “Teaching her how to deduce?” he tried to sound casual. He put the bags on the counter and began to put the food away.

“Yes,” Sherlock said hesitantly. “Is that all right?”

John wanted to punch the wall. Why was he so hesitant? He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Did Sherlock think he would be angry with him? Did he act like so much of a fucking prick that Sherlock felt the need to ask if a simple, sweet act was okay?! “It’s fine,” John said tightly.

“Are you sure--?”

“I said it’s fine!” John snapped.

Rosie’s dark eyes welled with tears and she started crying.

John gasped. “Rosie, no--” he made a move to walk towards them, but stopped. Sherlock looked hurt and confused.

He did this. He lost his temper _again,_ made Sherlock feel like he did something wrong, and now he made his daughter cry in fear. Fear of him. John didn’t know what to do. He wanted to shout and scream and cry and hold Rosie and apologize to Sherlock all at once, and he was frozen in place.

Sherlock’s lips compressed, and he looked out of his element, caught between him and the crying child in his arms. “I think--I’ll take care of her, yes? You just put away the shopping.” He swiftly walked away, back to the window, bouncing and shushing her in the way John should have been doing.

John put the food away with trembling hands and unshed tears blurring his vision.

Could he do anything right?

* * *

 

The next day was the three month anniversary of Mary’s death. John didn’t cry, but he felt like shit throughout the whole day. Sherlock must have remembered (of course he did), because he was especially quiet. At night, after he put Rosie to bed, John poured himself a drink. And another. And another. And another. He sat in his chair, lost inside his head, going through every event since the night Sherlock came back. Mary had been a good distraction to pull him out of depression when Sherlock was dead, but they never entirely got along. Sometimes, John felt more like she was laughing at him than with him, and when he would point this out, she would just smile some more and say he was silly. She had let John go out on cases with Sherlock, but then held it against him when he wasn’t home. _She shot Sherlock_ , and never apologized for it. Even with a bullet in her chest, she only told Sherlock that they were even.

That was proof, wasn’t it? She had meant to kill him. She wanted to kill Sherlock because he found out that she was lying about everything. She was prepared to lie to John for their entire lives, and lied more, even after being exposed, and left John and Rosie to go on her little mission without talking to him. They were supposed to talk things through, damn it! Did she not consider him important enough to include? She only sung his praises when he and Sherlock cornered her. Did she really think he was a good man, or was that an act, too? But, actually, it didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter. Actions spoke louder than words, and while she said he was a good man and all that shit, she was petty and unreliable. She belittled him and thought she could get away with treating him like garbage. He cheated, yeah, and that wasn’t right, but he only wanted someone else because he was so bloody _miserable_ with their marriage!

John took another sip of whiskey from his glass, head spinning. He couldn’t even remember the last time Mary said she loved him. Through the brutal honesty of inebriation, his mind allowed him to say something that had been on the tip of his tongue for a long time. “She was a bad person,” he said to the empty sitting room. He exhaled out his mouth, feeling relieved that he finally said it. Mary was cruel. She was not a good wife. She was not a good mother. She was not a good friend. She was not a good human being. If she hadn’t died, then John wouldn’t have felt so terrible over not loving her. It almost felt like she planned her death specifically to guilt him for the rest of his life. He scowled. As improbable as that seemed, it sounded like her.

And on top of everything else, she acted so chummy with Sherlock, as if she didn’t try to murder him. Sherlock deserved better treatment than that. John inhaled sharply. He messed up again, didn’t he? He treated Sherlock badly not only by moving back in with Mary, and blaming him for her death, and taking out his self-loathing on him, but by being as hung up on her death as he was on harming Sherlock, putting those two things on the same level. They were not on the same level. After everything, John’s mind still valued Mary as much as Sherlock. Well, fuck that. Fuck that shit. He was done. He was fucking _done_ with being hung up on Mary. He was tired of thinking about her. He was tired of acting as if Sherlock were not a better human being a million times over!

John stood up abruptly, and he quickly grabbed an arm on the chair to steady himself, dizzy. He hobbled over to the sink and poured the rest of the drink down the drain. That was enough for tonight. He looked down at his left hand. He was disgusted by the sight of his wedding band. He took it off roughly and threw it in the trash bin. How could he ever choose Mary over Sherlock? How could John act like she was more important than he? How could he repeatedly treat the man he loved so terribly?

How could Sherlock take him back every time?!

John was clutching the edge of the counter and panting. She was a murderer, a lying murderer, and he had the fucking audacity to feel an ounce of sadness and guilt over never telling her the truth about cheating, and treat Sherlock like a fucking stress-relieving punching bag. John felt like he was going to gag. Sherlock once described him as having a strong moral principle. That went out the window the minute he forgave Mary on Christmas (although he’s unsure if he ever truly forgave her, in his heart of hearts). He felt himself gag and put his hand over his mouth, desperately trying to calm down.

John heard the front door open and he turned around.

Sherlock came in, yawning, and hung his coat up. He took one look at John and said, “You’re drinking.”

“I just stopped,” he said roughly. _I’m sorry for being such a fucking arsehole. Mary was horrible to you and I’m sorry for not standing up for you._

Sherlock’s eyes scanned him, and he grew concerned. “John, what is it?”

He cleared his throat. He couldn’t do this tonight. “I think I’m gonna go to bed.” No, Sherlock deserved an apology--a thousand apologies! He had to stop. He had to think of someone else’s feelings for once. He should say it all now. His tongue was already loosened from the alcohol.

Sherlock nodded. “Probably for the best. Do you need help going up the stairs?”

His kindness felt like a dagger in his chest. They had to talk. They had to talk. They had to--“No, I’m fine. Night, Sherlock.” _God fucking damn it._ Why could he never voice his thoughts? Why did he always have to run away?

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock sad dubiously, watching him.

John went upstairs and crawled into bed with a sob buried in his throat. He was a coward.

* * *

 

The next day, after a walk through the park to clear his head and let Rosie have some fresh air, John was pushing her pram into the building. The walk had put her to sleep. He looked down at her, cheeks flushed pink from the cool, early spring air, the hood to her little blue coat pulled up and pushing her golden hair into her face. She looked like a doll, and John smiled fondly. She seemed to forgive him for his outburst the other day--that or she simply forgot about it--and he was grateful. As awful as he felt, she did give him joy. He only wished he could feel joy with Sherlock, too. John was about to take her out and bring her upstairs when he heard Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson talking, the sounds of their voices coming from her flat a few feet away.

John was about to shrug and go about his day--after all, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were close and it wasn’t out of the ordinary for them to talk, but usually, Sherlock only ever went down to her flat if he wanted something. But now, from the tone of their voices, it sounded like they were discussing something serious. Was something wrong?

John tiptoed to the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and pressed his ear against it. If they were talking by the door, then there was a chance Sherlock planned on leaving soon. John had to be careful not to get caught.

“He seems like a different person,” Mrs. Hudson said sadly.

“He’s been through a lot,” Sherlock said, his low voice almost too quiet to hear.

John froze. Were they talking about him?

“I know. It’s only been a few months since Mary.”

John’s lip twitched, feeling his expression darken.

“I know you want to help him,” Mrs. Hudson went on, “but I think he needs time, Sherlock.”

Sherlock went to her for help. He was worried. John was making him unhappy _again_.

“That’s not good enough,” Sherlock said firmly. “I could do better. I could try harder.”

John’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. He thought this was his fault?

“Just be there for him,” Mrs. Hudson said. “That’s all you can do.”

“That’s not good enough,” Sherlock nearly growled, and John was startled by his tone. “He was drunk the other night,” Sherlock said. “He’s...He seems so unhappy.”

 _Sherlock_ sounded unhappy. John couldn’t listen to this any more. Sherlock’s dejected voice when he did absolutely nothing wrong, did not have try try harder, and it was all John’s bloody fault! Why couldn’t he stop hurting Sherlock? Everything he did made him miserable. Why did Sherlock want him around? When he wasn’t being a waste of space, he was a piece of shit. He walked away from the door, not even caring of Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock heard his footsteps. He got Rosie out of her pram, holding her to his chest when she started to whine sleepily, and went up to their room. He took off her coat and little shoes and put her in her crib to continue her nap. John sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the wall until the room grew dark and Rosie’s cries snapped him out of his trance. He hadn’t felt this lifeless since he returned from Afghanistan.

* * *

 

Things came to a head the next evening.

“What are you planning to do about your old flat?” Sherlock asked.

The question took John by surprise. “What?” he asked, looking up. They were sitting in their respective chairs, Rosie having been put to bed two hours ago, with the television playing some nature documentary neither was really paying attention to.

Sherlock looked uncertain. “Your old flat, will you sell it?”

John blinked. “I...actually hadn’t thought of that. I suppose I should. It’s just sitting there, being a waste of space.” It had been close to two weeks since he moved back in with Sherlock. It only made sense to sell it. He’d been so caught up in his own emotions that he hadn’t even thought of it.

Sherlock nodded curtly. “Yes, I agree.” He looked over at the television screen, bottom lip between his teeth. Why did he look anxious? He glanced at John from the corner of his eye, then back at the screen. “Good.”

“What’s good?”

He still wasn’t looking at him. “Well, you’re selling the flat and have made no move to look for a new one, so I assume you’re staying here for awhile?”

John was confused. Did Sherlock not think he was going to stay? “I--yeah. That is, if it’s okay with you.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to him briefly. “Of course it is. That’s why I said ‘good.’” He pressed his lips together, and in a small voice, small enough to break every inch of John’s heart, he said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

That shattered every ounce of control John had. “Why?!” he shot up from his chair.

Sherlock’s head jerked up, eyes wide in astonishment.

He had no idea. He had no fucking idea why John would have a problem with this. John’s chest was heaving, blood rushing through his veins. “Why do you want me here?”

Sherlock looked stricken, and John hated that he put that look on his face. “Because...you’re my friend,” he said slowly, cautiously, voice laced with evident confusion.

Sherlock had no idea, no fucking idea what the problem was. John’s stomach rolled. He stared down at him, at the scab on his eyebrow and his too-thin face and eyes filled with far too much innocence for John to handle. At heart, he was a kind man, and John was _not._ “Why?” he demanded.

John didn’t think he ever saw Sherlock look so confused. “Why, what?” Sherlock asked. “Why are you my friend?”

“Yes!” he hissed. “Why the hell are you friends with me?”

Sherlock’s lips trembled and he looked completely lost, like a hurt child. “I like you,” he stated.

John was about to ask _why_ again, but realized they would be going in circles. Instead, he smiled bitterly, “You have no reason to.”

Sherlock’s wide eyes were scanning his face, probably trying to deduce what was going on. “John, I don’t understand where all this is coming from, but I can assure you that you’ve never been more wrong in your life.”

His hands balled into fists. “Why do you do this?” he whispered.

“Do what?” he asked, voice small.

“Why are you so nice to me?!” he threw his arms in the air. His face was getting hot. “Why are you so bloody kind to me when I’ve treated you like utter shit? Why the fuck would you let me live with you if you think I think you’re an arsehole?”

Sherlock’s mouth worked wordlessly. He licked his lips. “But, I am an arse--”

“No,” John cut him off immediately. “No, you’re not. You’re so fucking not. Do I make you feel that way?”

The question seemed to surprise him. “No, it’s nothing you did; I know I am. I always have been.”

This felt like a punch to the gut. How could Sherlock not see himself as the good man he truly was? _Getting beaten by your best friend would do that._ John shook away the voice in his head. “No, you’re not,” he said again. “You--” he huffed. “You…” The fire was quickly leaving him, and John felt tears coming on. He swallowed thickly. “Why do you let me do these things to you?” he whispered harshly. “Why did you take me back, after I beat you to a bloody pulp?” He looked at the mark on Sherlock’s eyebrow, which was healing, but still visible. “How could you do that? I’ve been terrible and--”

“Stop,” Sherlock held up a hand, standing, close enough that their chests were almost brushing. He looked pained. “Stop this, John. You haven’t been terrible to me, quite the contrary.”

John could only gape at him. “I don’t understand. I hit you.” In the spur of the moment, he reached up and placed his thumb on the scab next to Sherlock’s eyebrow. “I did this,” he whispered.

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

John lowered his hand, chest heavy and icy horror in his gut. “I kicked you. I beat you, and for what? Over my fucking wife who tried to kill you? No!” he shouted when Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. “She did, Sherlock. She tried to kill you, and you know it.” He realized how loud he was being and sighed harshly. “Great, I’m shouting again,” he said miserably. But he wasn’t finished. He had to get all of this out. “I blamed you for something completely out of your control. I continued to be married to the woman who tried to end your life. I made you _bleed,”_ his voice cracked. His eyes stung, but he couldn’t stop any of this from happening. “Why, Sherlock? Why aren’t you furious with me? Why don’t you fucking _hate_ me at this point?”

Sherlock was thunderstruck, brows furrowed deeply and pink lips parted. “John!” he exclaimed, aghast. “I could never hate you, why would you ever think that?”

“But _why_?” he persisted. “You have every right to hate me, and yet you forgive me for every horrible thing I do to you.” His vision blurred and he realized that he was about to cry in front of Sherlock for the second time in three weeks. He took a moment to close his eyes and breathe deeply. When he opened his eyes, the tears were still there, but they didn’t fall yet.

Sherlock frowned deeply and he moved to comfort him. “John, please--”

“No,” John stepped backwards. “No, tell me,” he pleaded desperately. “Why don’t you tell me off, shout at me, make me have some fucking consequences for my actions?” His voice was small but shredded, rough as sandpaper. His shoulders heaved and he had to suppress a whine. He looked at Sherlock, at his expression filled with confusion, horror, and sadness. He never deserved him.

Sherlock blinked rapidly. “John, may I speak?”

John nodded, biting his lip hard, holding back a sob and trying his hardest not to let any tears escape.

Sherlock lifted his hands, hesitated, and carefully placed them on John’s shoulders, looking him in the eye. “You were not yourself in the morgue,” he said seriously. “You were not. I was not. We were at our respective worsts, John. My worst was being completely off my tits on drugs. Your worst was letting your anger take control. No one should be judged by their actions when at their worst.”

John shook his head, incredulous. “That’s an excuse, Sherlock.”

“No, it isn’t,” he insisted, firmly but gently. “You were pushed to the limit. The initial reason why you hit me was to snap me out of my hallucinations. You thought I was going to stab a man, John. You got carried away because you were grieving--”

“But I wasn’t,” he cut in. “I hurt you because I was angry at myself. I was angry for being a shit husband and I took it out on you. That wasn’t right, Sherlock. Why don’t you ever stand up for yourself?”

Sherlock sighed. “The situation was more complicated than you’re presenting it. But, you weren’t grieving for her?”

John shook his head, eyes closing briefly in shame. Would Sherlock judge him for this? He took a deep breath. “She was a terrible person. I tried to make it work for Rosie’s sake, I think, and because I was too much of a bloody coward to leave her. Look,” he held up his left hand, “don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that I’m not wearing my ring.”

“I did,” Sherlock admitted. “I will say that your relationship with Mary always...confused me. Can I be honest?” he asked, taking his hands off John’s shoulders.

He missed the warmth of his hands. “Absolutely.”

“Sometimes, it seemed like you hated her,” he said bluntly. “There was tension between you two more often than not, but I stayed out of it because it was none of my business.”

John sniffed. “You’re not wrong,” he muttered. “She lied and lied and lied and was never sorry for it, and I put you through so much shit because of her.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted unhappily. “John, as I said, you were not yourself. To be frank, I don’t think you’ve been yourself since the day you got married. It only worsened as time went on.”

The tears returned to his eyes. Sherlock knew him so well. It felt like a relief to have someone acknowledge that he was unhappy for so long. He didn’t say anything.

Sherlock went on. “You feel guilty for hurting me, but let me tell you that you have nothing to apologize for.”

John sighed in exasperation, and finally, a tear escaped his left eye. “This is what I’m talking about. You _should_ want an apology from me. I shouldn’t be able to get away with--”

“You’re not,” Sherlock said sympathetically. “You haven’t gotten away with any wrongdoing you think you’ve done.” His light eyes were shining with compassion. “Look at you, John. You’ve been miserable for weeks because of this, yes?”

John nodded meekly, looking down at his feet. The tear rolled down his cheek and collected at his jaw.

“Then you’re not nearly as bad of a person as you think you are,” Sherlock told him softly. “A bad person feels no consequences for their actions, and is especially not haunted by their own actions.”

“Like Mary,” John muttered.

A pause. “Yes, like Mary,” Sherlock mumbled.

John looked up at him. “Sherlock, what did you really think of Mary? Tell me the truth.”

Sherlock looked away, his chest expanding and contracting with a long sigh. “I didn’t much care for her,” he confessed. “She shot me for trying to help her, and I didn’t like the way she treated you. However, I didn’t think you would have appreciated my comments, so I kept them to myself.”

John felt sick. “So, you had to deal with her, the one who shot you, to spare my feelings.” He put his head in his hands and shook his head, the rest of his tears falling and wetting his palms. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out. “I shouldn’t have gone back to her, I shouldn’t have blamed you for her death, I shouldn’t have hit you, I’m so fucking sorry, Sherlock.” John could barely finish the sentence before he broke down into small sobs, the bitter guilt and regret choking him, shredding his heart apart and making him queasy.

Strong arms wrapped around John’s shoulders, and he felt Sherlock’s cheek rest on his hair. Sherlock was hugging him. Was he going to do this more often, now that he already initiated his first hug? (God, John hoped so.) He wanted to lean into the embrace, but his muscles remained rigid. He couldn’t stop crying, and he was humiliated.

“John, please stop berating yourself,” he implored. “Please don’t cry, John, _please_.” His deep voice was scratchy and earnest. John could feel Sherlock’s voice vibrate in his chest. He wanted to lean his head against the broad chest in front of him, but didn’t allow himself to move.

Sherlock shifted and his lips were in his hair. “If you need to hear it, I’ll say it now: I forgive you for everything. I was never very angry with you to begin with, because I knew you were going through so much, and because I’m no innocent.” John felt him tense. “I made you grieve for two years. I think we can both stand to be kinder to each other, yes?”

John let out another gasping sob and Sherlock held him tighter. John clenched his jaw and looked up at Sherlock, not caring that his face was streaked with tears and his eyes were red and puffy. “Is it really that simple?” he asked with a small, disbelieving laugh. “We put each other through hell and decide to be nicer to each other?”

Sherlock looked into his eyes intently, gaze piercing. John remembered a time when he was intimidated by that stare. “Why not?” he asked simply. Mouth tightening imperceptibly, he brought one of his hands to John’s face and brushed a tear away with his thumb, tender in a way John didn’t know he could be.

John hoped his face was already red from crying, because he felt himself blush furiously. He could only stare at Sherlock silently, more tears falling as he blinked, getting his breathing back under control.

Sherlock’s eyes lowered. “I hate seeing you so unhappy, John. Think about what I said, please? You’re not a bad person. You’re a strong man, and yet you’ve broken down because you think you’ve hurt me.” His eyes came back up to meet his. “Moriarty was a bad person. Magnussen was a bad person. They felt no wrong for what they did. You are not them,” he said sincerely.

John’s lips quivered without his permission and a fresh stream of hot tears ran down his face. Sherlock’s mouth opened in a frown and he wrapped his hand around the back of John’s neck, bringing his head to rest under his chin.

John let himself be manhandled, secretly loving being coddled by Sherlock, and he released small cries into his collarbone.

Through his misery, John began to think that maybe, Sherlock was right. Moriarty and Magnussen were terrible people, and not only did they feel no remorse, but they enjoyed what they did. Mary never felt sorry for what she did. John, however, was in a state of depression over what he did. Maybe that really did say something about his moral character, after all. He wanted to be better. He wanted to make Sherlock happy. Slowly, he felt his sobs die down, and his heart rate returned to normal, matching Sherlock’s. He could feel each breath Sherlock took, and he wanted to press a kiss to the soft skin of his neck. He didn’t think he ever loved Sherlock as much as he did now.

There was one more thing he needed to say, though. “Sherlock,” he murmured, “do something for me. Please.”

“Anything,” he answered.

“If I’m ever hurting you, ever, tell me.” He looked up, and he felt very small in Sherlock’s embrace. “I’m sorry for hurting you, physically and emotionally. I’m sorrier than I can possibly say.” He licked his lips. “You’re not an arse, Sherlock. You’re a good man, better than you think. You didn’t deserve any of Mary’s bullshit, or mine. You deserve to be happy.”

Sherlock’s fair cheeks turned light pink. “John...thank you.”

And fuck, Sherlock thanking him for simply calling him a good person was too much. John hugged him back, wrapping his arms around his torso, and it was the first time they shared a proper hug in the five years since they met. He felt Sherlock stiffen momentarily, but then he relaxed, and John felt him release a tiny sigh.

John felt their hearts beating together, and finally, after all this time, he felt the weight slowly begin to lift from his shoulders. “Promise me, Sherlock. I know you don’t think I need to apologize, but I am. I’m so fucking sorry, and I promise you that I’ll try to do better. Promise me you’ll tell me if I’m ever hurting you. Please.”

“I promise,” Sherlock said into his hair.

John shivered and put his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, their proximity making his head swirl. He still thought Sherlock should have been at least a little angry with him, but if John promised never to hurt him again, and if Sherlock promised to tell him when he was going too far, they could work. They could work. Maybe they really could put all of the ugliness behind them, and start a new life together.

They pulled back, but kept their arms locked around each other. Sherlock’s eyes were soft and his lips looked deliciously pink and plump. John didn’t know what to do. He loved him so much, and they just had a much-needed conversation, but did this was the final barrier between them, and he still didn’t know how Sherlock felt about him.

Sherlock’s lips pulled up into a tiny grin. “Better?”

“A little,” he said, searching his eyes. How did Sherlock feel? He was patient and would do anything for John, but was that simply how Sherlock expressed friendship? No...No, because Sherlock was friends with Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and he didn’t treat them the same way as John.

Then, it all came crashing to John, and he realized his final error. He hadn’t seen everything Sherlock had done for him. When they first met, Sherlock had taken an interest in him and cured his limp. Then, he gave him a life of adventure until he sacrificed himself by jumping off a building. John didn’t know the details, but he knew Sherlock’s two years away were no walk through the park. He put himself through pain in order to keep him safe. Then, he came back, only to discover John had moved on, but helped plan his wedding, got shot and almost died, and tried to justify Mary’s actions in order to save their marriage. Then, he worked with John to track Mary down and confront her. Finally, he put himself through absolute hell to simply get John to talk to him again. He did so much for him, and it couldn’t have been out of sheer friendship. The revelation wasn’t shocking; in fact, everything clicked into place. Sherlock always had a heart. John never fully saw it because he never believed _he_ would be the owner of that heart.

John felt an odd sense of calm wash over him. “You love me,” he stated.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and it would have been comical if he didn’t look so frightened. He let go of John, but he grabbed Sherlock’s hands, murmuring, “No, no, no, stay here.”

Sherlock was a deer caught in headlights. He gulped, the color draining from his face. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

John squeezed his hands. “Why?”

His eyes darted back and forth, like he was looking for a way to escape. “I never meant for you to find out. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.” His face was scarlet.

“Don’t be sorry for anything,” John said sincerely, his heart tearing in half. “Don’t ever be sorry for loving, Sherlock.” His pulse was galloping, but he was going to do it. No more secrets or misunderstandings. No more unhappy Sherlock. He had been so terribly, painfully afraid of being rejected by Sherlock and ruining their friendship forever, but now that John knew how he felt, there was no reason for him to hold back. His took Sherlock’s (now sweating) hands and placed them on his waist.

Sherlock looked down at his hands, then up at John, a question in his eyes.

“I was afraid of ruining us. I didn’t think you did this, and I’m sorry. I feel like I’ve misunderstood you for a long time.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No one understands me better than you, John.”

He was too sweet. “Well, even so. I love you, Sherlock.” Once the words left his lips, John felt ten years younger, and he couldn’t help but smile.

Sherlock blinked rapidly. “O-oh?” his deep voice turned high and squeaked. His lips snapped shut and John giggled (when was the last time he’d laughed?).

“Uh huh,” John said, his arms around Sherlock’s back pulling him closer, and he wanted to kiss that clever, astonished mouth. “I love you,” he said again, and couldn’t believe how easy it was to say it. Maybe because he spent years imagining it. “I’m _in_ love with you. I’ve been gone on you for years.”

And now, suddenly, Sherlock looked like he could have started crying. His eyes turned ridiculously blue, face open and vulnerable. “John?” he rasped.

John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. His lips were soft, so soft that John pressed harder, opening his mouth and kissing him deeper. Sherlock made a surprised little sound in his throat and kissed back, and John realized they were both trembling. Sherlock’s plush lips parted tentatively and he brought his tongue out to go into John’s mouth, but it felt forced, rushed, and John grunted.

He broke the kiss. “You know we’re in no hurry, right?” John asked, and regretted it when he was met with a humiliated look.

“Is this not how it’s done?” Sherlock asked.

John cupped Sherlock’s warm cheek. “It’s not that, but it felt like you were rushing.”

He ducked his head. “Am I that transparent? I only thought that since it took us so long to get here, we shouldn’t waste any time.”

John sighed, stroking his cheek with his thumb. “Sherlock, I intend to stay with you for as long as you’ll have me.”

At that, Sherlock’s head shot up. “Then you’ll stay forever,” he said intently.

John’s chest was warm and tight. “Then we have forever to figure it out,” he whispered.

Sherlock’s face broke into the most beautiful, genuine smile he had ever seen, and as if on cue, Rosie started crying.

John sighed, but felt an idea pop into his head. “Look, Sherlock, it’s been an emotional night for both of us, and I think we’re both a bit overwhelmed. Why don’t you come with me upstairs, and after Rosie goes back to sleep, we, um…” It felt like the tips of his ears were on fire. “We can kiss more, or not, if you don’t want, on my bed. Or just--hold each other, and see what feels right. If that makes sense?” he asked, cringing at his awkwardness.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I like that plan.”

He sighed in relief. “Good.”

They went upstairs, and after rocking Rosie until she fell asleep again, John turned to Sherlock, who was sitting on the edge of his bed expectantly. John still didn’t think he deserved him, but if Sherlock wanted to be with him, and wanted to give him a second chance to be better, he wouldn’t deny him. John sat down next to him, placed his hand on his jaw, and their lips met halfway.

Their kisses were soft and slow, a sensuous gliding of lips, little wet sounds. John’s hand moved and wrapped around the back of Sherlock’s neck, tugging on the soft curls at his nape. Sherlock’s grip tightened on his hips and a low hum came from his throat. John took that pink, soft bottom lip into his mouth and sucked lightly, but returned to chaste, small kisses when Sherlock gasped.

John pulled back, and his heart thumped hard at the sight. Sherlock looked dazed, eyes glazed over and hazy, lips slightly swollen and red, looking gorgeous and happy and young. John swallowed. “I still think you’re getting the short end of the stick,” he admitted.

Sherlock took John’s hand from the back of his neck and quickly kissed one of his knuckles. “John, please believe me when I say that I want nothing more than to be with you. You’re everything to me, John. Let me love you.”

John thought of how throughout their marriage, Mary barely said she loved him, and here was Sherlock, tender and caring, already a better partner. John nodded, afraid he might tear up again (god, he really had to stop crying at the drop of a hat). “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“You don’t have to thank me. I forgive you for everything; forgive yourself.”

John nodded again, the spoken permission from the person he hurt to move on feeling like a balm on his wounds. “I’ll try,” he vowed.

Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Lie with me. You’re tired.”

He was right about that. Between all the crying and general emotional turmoil, John felt like he could sleep for days.

Sherlock lay on his back, and he looked uncertain. John felt a little uncertain, too. He never cuddled with a man before, let alone Sherlock. _Oh, fuck it._ They spent enough fucking time being afraid to touch each other.

“Sherlock, it’s late, we’re both in our pajamas, and we’re on top of a bed. Let’s just get our heads out of our arses, get under the covers, and fucking relax for once.”

Sherlock smirked. “There’s the John Watson I know: no-nonsense and practical.”

John snorted. “Git.” Although it was a joke, truth be told, John was beginning to feel more like himself. They got under the sheets and blanket, and met in the middle of the mattress, hugging. John didn’t think he ever enjoyed hugging someone as much as he loved hugging Sherlock. He was solid and warm under his T-shirt, chest and shoulders more muscular than they appeared. They shifted around a little bit until Sherlock was on his back, arms around John, and John’s nose was buried in the curls by Sherlock’s ear. John only had one pillow, so they had to share, but it was an excuse to be close, so neither complained. John placed his hand on Sherlock’s chest, kissing the soft curls in front of his face and inhaling the sweet-smelling shampoo. The tension in his muscles was melting away, and John didn’t think he felt this relaxed since before Sherlock jumped. It was better now, though.

Still, there were things he wanted to know. John felt like he could not truly begin to move on if he didn’t know everything. “Sherlock, can I ask you some things?”

“Certainly.”

John propped himself up on his elbow.

Sherlock stared up at him curiously. Though he was clearly content, the damage from recent events left a (hopefully temporary) mark on Sherlock. He hoped some of Mrs. Hudson’s baked goods could make him gain a little weight back. He remembered when Mycroft feared a danger night when they thought Irene Adler had died. If Sherlock loved him, and John blamed Sherlock and said he wanted anyone but him to help (god, what a fucking prick he’d been), then… “You almost died. You almost overdosed, and you seemed perfectly fine with it. Why?”

Sherlock squirmed under his gaze. “It was part of the plan.”

“Not entirely,” John pressed on. “I saw the video Mary left you, but could you really think of nothing else but almost killing yourself?”

Sherlock turned his head with a sigh, staring at the wall. He was quiet for a long moment, struggling internally.

“Don’t be afraid of hurting my feelings,” John told him. “I want to know everything.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, face still turned, and John briefly admired his beautiful profile. “It helped,” he said.

“The drugs? With what?”

His eyes opened. “With almost losing you.”

With his suspicion confirmed, John cursed. “Jesus fucking Christ--”

Sherlock rolled his head on the pillow to look at him. “John, language. Rosie’s right there.”

“She’s asleep and won’t be picking up what we say for a good while.” Sherlock wanted him to move on, but with this new piece of information, and remembering how out of it and small Sherlock had looked in the boot of Mrs. Hudson’s car, John felt like a large hand was squeezing his heart. He brushed the curls from Sherlock’s forehead, biting the inside of his cheek hard. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock mutely shook his head.

He felt anger bubbling inside of him. “Are you going to excuse all of that, too? When you were fucking dying and I didn’t even want to see you?”

“As I said: you were at your worst,” Sherlock told him calmly. “As was I. I’m an adult. I made the choice to use again. I’m to blame, as well.”

John shook his head in disbelief. He pictured Sherlock, alone and depressed downstairs, shooting up while thinking of him. He was about to apologize again, but knew Sherlock hated redundancy. “You need to take care of yourself,” he said. “I don’t want you hurting yourself, ever, but especially not for me when I’m being a fucking prick.”

“And you need to stop hating yourself,” Sherlock said plainly.

There it was, out in the open: John hated himself. It was true, and hearing Sherlock say it made his breath shudder.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he quickly wrapped his arms around John, pulling him down into an embrace. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you’re right,” John whispered harshly into the crook of his neck, shoulders shaking with new tears he refused to shed. He’d done enough crying.

“You shouldn’t,” Sherlock said into his ear. “You’re a good man, John. You are. You’re the best person I’ve ever met. I love you.”

John shook harder.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock said again, and this time, his voice wobbled. “That was uncalled for and I hurt you.” John heard him swallow. “Please, John, I'm sorry.” He sounded like he was on the verge of tears.

John couldn't look at him, because if he saw a single tear on that beautiful face, John would have been reduced to a puddle. He wouldn't allow Sherlock to cry over him. He needed to change the subject. He took a couple deep breaths and said, “You shouldn’t put yourself through hell over me. You deserve better.” _You deserve to feel loved, to be kissed, hugged, touched, stroked and experience pleasure._ He lay his body next to Sherlock’s, their sides pressing against one another, and wrapped an arm around his chest, holding him and hoping his tears were subsiding.

Sherlock still sounded upset, but his voice came out a little steadier. “I think we could both stand to improve our behaviors. I will speak up if I think you’re going too far with something, and won’t put myself in danger anymore, and you’ll control your anger--I know you can do it, don’t protest--and forgive yourself. If do those things, we can move on from this mess. Can’t we?” he added, needing validation.

When laid out like that, it seemed so simple. “If you want to spend your life with me, then I’m committed to being better,” John said, “so yes. I think it can work, Sherlock. It’ll be hard.”

“Of course. We’re two very stubborn men.”

John huffed out a laugh through his nose. “Right you are.”

That was the key to a healthy relationship, wasn’t it? Communication and vowing to fix things and be better. It would have never worked with Mary because she never wanted to change, and in a way, John didn’t want to be better for her, out of sheer spite. But he knew Sherlock was serious, and so was he. John knew how much Sherlock meant to him; he wouldn’t knowingly hurt him again. He also knew how much he meant to Sherlock, and would try to find happiness for his sake, and for Rosie’s. It wasn’t fair for Sherlock to be saddled with a depressed partner, and Rosie absolutely didn’t deserve a depressed father. He had to do it for them. John had to let go of his guilt and bitterness and fear and let himself love. Being this close to Sherlock made it seem possible.

John’s eyes slid shut. He was so incredibly lucky to have found Sherlock all those years ago. He didn’t know where he would be without him. In the old days, he told himself that he was happy to be his friend, and only his friend, but now that he knew Sherlock loved him, he felt free. “It feels like a privilege to be loved by you,” John whispered into his hair.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then said, “I must admit, your poetry is much more flattering when it’s directed at me and not some woman in an email.”

John chuckled, placing his hand directly over Sherlock’s heart. “Get used to it.”

“I don’t think I ever will,” Sherlock mused. “That’s a good thing.”

John felt warm and comfortable, pressed up against Sherlock with the blankets over them. He yawned and felt Sherlock’s large hand stroke his hair. He smiled. “Sherlock Holmes, you’re a romantic.”

“So are you,” Sherlock countered with a kiss to his forehead.

John yawned again, and he felt his thoughts begin to drift and float around in his head. “I’m gonna make you happy, Sherlock,” he mumbled. “Give me a chance and I will, promise.”

“I know you will, John,” he said patiently. “You already make me happy. You’ve been through so much,” his voice rumbled, vibrating in his chest and into John’s hand. “Sleep now.”

For once, John let himself rest.

* * *

 

The next morning, John woke up to the sound of Rosie’s cries, deep snores in his ear, and the feeling of Sherlock’s body sprawled on top of him. Their chests were pressed together and, to John’s alarm, he felt Sherlock’s hard prick on his abdomen. _Well, all right, then._ He would deal with _that_ later--preferably, not when his baby daughter was in the room. He had no idea how Sherlock was still sound asleep with Rosie crying, but it made John laugh. He put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and gently pushed him off him and onto the mattress. Sherlock simply rolled on his back, smacked his lips, and continued snoring. John didn’t know who was louder: Sherlock or Rosie. He rolled his eyes fondly and thought that he really must have been head over heels, because he wanted to kiss Sherlock. However, he had a baby to attend to. He got up, yawning, and picked up Rosie.

“Started your daily screaming?” he asked her, wiping the tears away from her red, chubby cheeks. “C’mon. Let’s get you breakfast.”

John brought her downstairs and made her drink one of her bottles, relieved when she stopped crying. After John burped her, he put his hands under Rosie’s armpits and stood her up on the kitchen table, smiling when she laughed.

“Feeling better?” he asked her.

Her eyes were glistening and her blonde locks were ruffled. John felt a swell of fondness and kissed her cheek. “You want to play, hm? Let’s go.”

John was sitting with Rosie in his lap in his armchair, reading her _Green Eggs and Ham_ (well, trying to read while Rosie tried to stick the corner of the book into her mouth) when Sherlock came downstairs, cheeks pink and eyes bleary.

“Hey,” John greeted him. “Sleep well?”

Rosie smiled and started babbling at Sherlock.

Sherlock gave her a brief smile. “Hello. I did.” Walking towards them, he surveyed John. “You...look much better,” he said.

John sat there for a moment. “I...I feel much better,” he realized. He didn’t feel lifeless. He felt _happy_ this morning, and it was because of Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled warmly. “I’m very glad.” He leaned down and kissed his forehead, then kissed Rosie’s.

“How are you?” John asked.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, and it looked like he meant it. “I’m glad to see you like this.”

John grinned. “Go eat something, you.” Feeling a little bold, his bit his lip. “I was thinking, perhaps Rosie could go with Mrs. Hudson for a couple hours?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“I didn’t get nearly enough time to kiss you last night.” John felt a bit giddy when Sherlock’s lips parted.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, clearly trying to hold back a grin. “Hm, that needs to be fixed.”

“Indeed” He really had to stop talking about this. Feeling a shred of sexual arousal while Rosie was on his lap was every kind of wrong.

Speaking of whom, she grabbed the book and shook it, “Uhhh!”

“Oh, sorry, you want me to keep going?” John asked her.

Sherlock went into the kitchen to fix himself something to eat.

They had all the time in the world, after all.

* * *

In the early afternoon, they were on Sherlock’s (much bigger) bed, kissing softly. They were lying on their sides, and Sherlock was cradling his face. John never really knew just how large Sherlock’s hands were, how strong and masculine, until he felt them on his skin. He loved it. They were kissing slowly, tenderly, their lips gliding together wetly, little smacking noises filling the room. John’s left hand was tangled in Sherlock’s curls, loving that he finally got to touch his hair. It was ridiculously soft, and John wondered if he liked his hair pulled. He wouldn’t try it now, though, not when things were new and delicate.

Sherlock made a happy little sound in his throat, and John smiled.

“Mmm?” Sherlock hummed.

“Enjoying yourself?” John asked against his lips.

Sherlock grunted and kissed him again, and John laughed into his mouth. He couldn’t believe kissing Sherlock felt this good. It felt good physically, obviously--Sherlock, for all his inexperience, was a pretty decent kisser and his lips were sinfully plush--but simply lying here, on a quiet afternoon in the middle of the week, snogging, filled John with...peace. Peace he never felt with Mary. No. He wouldn’t think of her. This was about Sherlock. He tried to express every single fiber of love he felt into each kiss, and with each movement of their lips, their wounds slowly healed. He moved his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, petting him, heart filling with warmth when Sherlock rumbled happily.

“You’re cute,” John whispered against his lips.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock whispered back, and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his lips. He removed one of his hands from John’s faced and wrapped his arm around his waist. John never would have imagined he was this physically affectionate, at least not until the first hug he initiated a few weeks ago. He welcomed every ounce of affection, not only because he genuinely enjoyed being on the receiving end of affection for once, but because he wanted Sherlock to know that exposing his heart wasn’t always a bad thing.

John let the tip of his tongue run over the seam of Sherlock’s lips, sliding in a couple centimeters when Sherlock granted him access into his mouth. He didn’t want to overwhelm him (or himself) by licking all the way into his mouth, though, so he kept it brief, removing his tongue after a few seconds and pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, opening his eyes.

Sherlock’s hair was a mess from his hand.

John smirked and placed his hand on his hip.

“Is it my hair?” Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing.

“Yes.”

“John.”

John laughed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kissed his chin. “You’re ridiculous.” He sighed, a dreamy tone in his voice. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I really am,” John said, pecking the tip of his nose, his chest aching with fondness. “I love you, too.”

Sherlock failed to bite his lip and hold back his bright smile. “I know.”

John pressed rapid kisses to his cheek, smiling against Sherlock’s skin at his indignant, _“John!”_

“Oh, stop it,” John snickered. “You act like I’m setting you on fire.”

Sherlock fake-pouted, so John retaliated by biting his protruding lower lip.

Sherlock slapped his bicep playfully. “Rude.”

“Git.”

“Idiot.”

“Arse.”

“You like mine.”

John sputtered. “What?”

Sherlock smirked. “I know you do.”

“How?”

“You just told me.”

John huffed, feeling embarrassed. “You’re the one who was hard against me this morning.”

The smirk fled from Sherlock’s face. “I was?”

John pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Sorry, sorry, I know it was just biology and all that rubbish. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” Damn.

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s quite all right. I started it by bringing up my posterior.”

John snickered. “It _is_ rather lovely,” he admitted. He collected himself. It was clear that neither were quite ready for sex yet. That was probably a byproduct of them denying and repressing their feelings for each other for years. John wanted to at some point. He pictured what Sherlock would be like, head thrown back and moaning, more times than he could count. But, they were both ridiculously emotional, and if just kissing fully clothed felt this good, then John figured they were actually just fine. “But I was a bit turned off by you snoring into my ear.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped, affronted. “I do _not_!”

“Oh, trust me, you do. It’s like a bloody steam engine.”

“Liar!” Sherlock cried, and rolled onto John, pinning him down on his back with the weight of his body.

John erupted into surprised giggles. “Get off me, you great, big sod!”

“No.” Sherlock said petulantly, wrapping his arms around John’s middle and burying his face into his shoulder. “I like it here, even if you’re a filthy liar.”

Sherlock’s unexpected playfulness filled John with glee, and he simply wrapped his arms around his back and kissed his curly mop. Love never felt this fun before. Sherlock made no move to get up, so John figured he was content to stay there. That was fine by him. He rather liked holding Sherlock. He was warm and solid and _his._ To think that a day ago, he was still wretchedly miserable. With one long-overdue conversation, John felt like his life turned around. He knew he would have scars from the past two years, but so would Sherlock, and he was confident they could get through it together. It almost shocked John how much better he felt today, but then he remembered that in January of 2010, he felt hopeless, suicidal, until he met this infuriatingly brilliant madman. It really shouldn’t have been a surprise that Sherlock saved John from himself again. This time, however, John was going to make sure that he repaid Sherlock for every second of happiness, and was there for him when he would fall. He felt like he understood Sherlock now better than ever, and god damn it, he wouldn’t let anything, especially not his own fucking stubbornness, get in the way of their happiness.

There was Rosie, too. In a little while, he would go downstairs and fetch her from Mrs. Hudson, feed her dinner, change her nappy, play with her, bathe her, put her to bed, and all with Sherlock by his side. That reminded him.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“Rosie really should start sleeping on her own. Would you mind if I started sleeping down here with you?”

Sherlock smiled against his skin “I would be insulted if you didn’t.”

“Then it’s settled.”

Sherlock kissed the side of his neck and breathed a long, deep, relaxed sigh.

John felt as relaxed as he sounded.

For the first time in his life, John was sure that everything would be okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I add an nsfw chapter? I was debating it while writing this story.  
> EDIT: Ok since I fucked up, I'll give you guys another chapter. If there's another glitch, assume my computer fucked up lol


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get it ON

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I am so sorry for what happened with the first chapter of this story.  
> I had accidentally uploaded it TWICE. AO3 kept glitching out on me, and it wouldn't let me upload the story, and I kept pressing "post without preview" because it was late and I wanted to upload it so badly, but I guess it registered that I had uploaded it twice. Then, that created confusion, and some people weren't sure if they were reading the whole story, and so I deleted the version with fewer kudos and decided to write the porny epilogue, anyway.  
> So here it is lol. I wasn't expecting this to be nearly 8,000 words, but with that angsty first chapter, I figured they couldn't just jump right into sex! I hope you enjoy.

The problem was that John really, really wanted to have sex with Sherlock, but he didn’t know how to initiate any sexual interaction with him. Now he knew that Sherlock did want to have sex (John mentally smacked himself for believing he was too much like a machine to feel sexual desire at one point), but they had been through so damn much. They spent years forcing themselves to shut down and not touch each other, and it was proving to be a difficult habit to break. Kissing was fine; kissing was comfortable and sweet and wet and just a tiny bit hot, but they stopped and cooled down when things started to get intense. John wanted to touch him so badly, had spent years imagining Sherlock’s naked body pressed against his, and yet he felt as apprehensive as a virginal teenager.

When he imagined what it would be like to get together with Sherlock, John thought they would have been so desperate for each other that they fell into bed right away. They _were_ desperate for each other, but John almost felt like they were scared to touch each other beyond kissing. That was how he felt, anyway. He loved Sherlock so deeply, and he never had sex with someone he cared about that much. John never really _made love,_ not with any of his girlfriends and certainly not with Mary. It may have sounded stupid, but god, he wanted to make love to Sherlock.

John knew that Sherlock had completely forgiven him for his violent behavior back at the morgue, and he was beginning to come to terms with it and forgive himself, too, but he felt like he _needed_ to show Sherlock that his body deserved the gentlest of touches, and intense pleasure. He wanted to worship Sherlock, make him feel like a god.

He wished he knew how. He never let himself go completely in front of anyone before, not during sex, and he was scared of it.

John’s thought were disrupted by Sherlock’s nose nuzzling into the side of his neck.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” he muttered, voice deep and gruff with sleep.

God, John thought he could come from that voice alone. “Sorry,” he turned his head and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock yawned, his breath a hot rush on John’s skin. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

They were infinitely happier than they were four days ago, but both of them knew emotional scars did not heal overnight. In this case, though, John didn’t want Sherlock to worry. It was just him being stupid about sex. “No, I just don’t feel tired right now.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Then, as if on cue, Rosie’s cries flooded their bedroom from the monitor and they both groaned. The sex situation was not helped by having a baby in the flat. John looked at the clock and was surprised to see it was ten minutes past two. He really had to stop letting his thoughts keep him awake.

Sherlock sat up. “I’ll see what she wants.”

“No,” John sat up, grabbing his elbow. “You’re tired. I can get her.”

In the darkness, John saw Sherlock’s lips quirk upwards in a small grin. “You need to sleep more than I do. You won’t fall asleep around a crying toddler.”

John lay down. He _was_ tired. “Hm, well I know better than to argue with a genius.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock said and left the bed to go to Rosie’s room.

John turned on his side with a sigh, closing his eyes. Now really wasn’t the time to think about this. After a couple minutes, the cries died down on the baby monitor, and a couple minutes after that, Sherlock came back to bed, kissing John’s shoulder before he curled up behind him.

What did John have to worry about? They were fine. Really. They would take it slow and do what felt right. Like he said to Sherlock the other night--no need to rush.

* * *

 

The universe just loved proving John wrong.

He thought he was dreaming, his mind far too fuzzy to register much of anything beyond the feeling of arousal throbbing in his groin. John felt good--he was warm and comfortable and it felt nice rutting against...whatever this was. He groaned, half of him sleepy and half of him getting really turned on, his nipples hardening and brushing against the fabric of his T-shirt. He grunted, his nipples feeling sensitive and his cock pulsing with pleasure. He heard Sherlock’s voice.

“John?” he asked, startled.

But John’s brain was still floating between a dream and reality so his hips went on thrusting, his cock rubbing against something warm and firm, and he felt himself getting harder. This was nice. It would be even better if he could thrust _into_ something, something hot and tight that would squeeze around his cock.

“J--John? What--?”

 _Sherlock? Sherlock!_ John’s eyes flew open.

Sherlock was looking back at him from over his shoulder with wide eyes and scarlet on his cheekbones.

John’s face flooded with heat when he realized he was humping in between Sherlock’s arse cheeks. His hips stilled immediately. “Shit!” he cursed, rolling onto his back and putting his hands over his face in humiliation. It was really stupid to think so much about sex before going to sleep. He must have been dreaming of sex, and he assaulted Sherlock in his sleep like some fucking animal. _So much for not worrying about it._ The worst part was, John’s erection was still straining against his pajama bottoms.

“Sorry,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I must’ve been dreaming of...something. I dunno.” He needed another few seconds before he could look Sherlock.

When Sherlock spoke, he sounded a little winded. “It’s okay. You couldn’t control your actions in your sleep, of course.”

John bit the bullet and looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock had turned on his side to face him, and his entire face was crimson. John was so tempted to look down and try to see if he were hard, too, but Sherlock looked genuinely flustered. He frowned. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock nodded, swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his long throat. “Yes, yes, fine.” His eyes darted down to the blankets around John’s crotch. “Do you...need assistance?” he asked, but it came out forced, and nervous, and all around wrong.

This still wasn’t the right time. He didn’t want Sherlock to touch him because he felt like he had to, and he didn’t want their first time to be the result of his horny dreams. “No, no I’m--I can manage.” He cringed. God, why was this so difficult? “I think I’m going to, uh,” he cleared his throat, “go to the loo, get ready for the day, get Rosie up.”

Sherlock nodded silently, the furious blush on his face staying firmly in place.

John went into the bathroom, and it barely took five strokes to his cock for him to come, biting his lip and muffling his moan.

He cleaned off his hand under the faucet and looked at himself in the mirror wearily.

That was awkward.

\--

They didn’t mention John’s humping episode for the rest of the day, and blushed every time they made eye contact. Thankfully, Rosie distracted them both sufficiently enough, John thought it would have been indecent to think about humping Sherlock with his baby girl around, and as a result he was able to stay in the same room with Sherlock without dying from embarrassment.

At night, when they climbed into bed, Sherlock stared at him for a long moment before he leaned over and pressed their mouths together, sharing chaste peck on the lips. Then, Sherlock rolled over and went to sleep.

John felt like he made their sex situation take two steps backwards.

* * *

 

The next day, John was walking upstairs from dropping Rosie off at Mrs. Hudson’s for a couple hours (she insisted that she wanted to spend time with her and be like a grandmother figure, and John was more than fine with that) and heard the sweet sound of Sherlock’s violin. John smiled and walked into the flat, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Sherlock didn’t stop playing. He was facing the window, his posture relaxed, the sun highlighting the loose curls by his ears, playing something slow and sweet, the melody gentle but heartfelt. John didn’t recognize the piece, and wondered if it were one of Sherlock’s compositions. He realized that he actually hadn’t heard Sherlock play in quite some time. He used to love when Sherlock would play for him, his pale cheeks flushing with pleasure at John’s praises. He remembered the quiet, winter nights in front of the fire, wrapped up in a blanket in his armchair, lulled into a nap by Sherlock’s playing. John felt incredibly fond.

He walked quietly towards Sherlock, not wanting to startle him if he didn’t already know John was in the room. He reached out a hand, hesitating mid-air, and slowly rested his palm on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock’s playing didn’t falter at all, so he must have known John was in the room. Something about that made John’s heart give an odd little twist, and he wasn’t quite sure why. Careful not to compromise his playing in any way, John wrapped his other arm around Sherlock’s waist, feeling a little bold. He figured that as long as Sherlock’s song continued to play, he was in safe territory. If he did anything to make Sherlock stop playing, then he’d know he was going too far. But Sherlock didn’t seem to mind being held at all, and John hugged him from behind, pressing his mouth against Sherlock’s back but not quite kissing him. He closed his eyes, heart beating hard, the music filling his ears easing the tension in his bones.

John closed his eyes, trying not to get too upset with himself when he felt that Sherlock was still too thin, and likely would be for another couple weeks or so (Sherlock didn’t gain weight easily--the lucky git). He wondered if Sherlock still had bruises from his harsh kicks in the morgue, and John had to stop his train of thought again. _I forgive you for everything: forgive yourself,_ Sherlock had said to him. He had to listen to Sherlock. John took a deep breath. He had to focus on Sherlock, on his music and the warmth of his body and the firmness of his muscles.

John inhaled deeply, smelling Sherlock’s shampoo, and he nuzzled the soft curl at his nape with his nose. He kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck softly. Sherlock kept playing, so he figured it was okay. He kissed his neck again, allowing his lips to linger, parting them against his skin.

John felt Sherlock’s abdomen tighten in a shuddering inhale. Sherlock let out a shaky exhale, but his playing continued on. _Cheeky bastard._ John’s arm tightened around his waist and his lips moved to the junction where his neck met his shoulder, kissing him through his olive green dress shirt. It felt good to be so close to Sherlock, to share peaceful moment in their home. John moved to the side of his neck and sucked lightly, enjoying the warm skin under his lips.

Sherlock hit a particularly high, sweet note on his violin, a small, barely audible moan coming from his throat.

John teethed at his neck, not hard enough to hurt or leave a mark, just testing the waters.

Sherlock’ playing paused, his arms freezing, but before John could apologize, he resumed playing. He wanted John to keep going.

Swallowing thickly, John bit down a little harder, then softened his touch by kissing the spot softly. John pressed the front of his body against Sherlock’s back, heart fluttering at the contact, and he kissed the spot beneath Sherlock’s ear, lips parting and sucking. He felt a shiver run through Sherlock’s body, and he was impressed at how well he was still playing. John’s groin was pressed against Sherlock’s arse, and he tried hard not to get (too) aroused. He took Sherlock’s earlobe between his teeth.

Sherlock gasped and his playing stopped. “John.”

John removed his lips sheepishly, hands falling to his sides. “Sorry.”

Sherlock leaned his head back and he kissed John’s jaw. “Nonsense,” he mumbled. He placed the violin and bow on the table next to the window and turned around, a small grin playing at his lips. He looked peaceful.

John smiled. “I liked your playing a lot. I’d missed it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Sherlock seemed pleased, his lips quirking into a smile that looked like a V-shape. John loved that smile. “I’m surprised. You seemed to focused on something else other than my playing.”

John wasn’t sure he would ever get used to Sherlock flirting with him. He giggled in surprise. “What a genius you are.”

“You kissed me,” Sherlock said.

“I did.”

His grin faded, and he looked shy, eyes flickering down. “Want to do it again?”

The hesitancy killed John. “Of course I do, you sod. Do you, um…”

“Yes?”

“Well, Rosie’s downstairs, we can, erm, get comfortable.” He coughed delicately behind his fist. Did he seriously just say that, after his blunder yesterday? “It gets tiring standing after a while,” he explained dumbly. “We can lie on the sofa, you know, relax a bit.” It wasn’t fair that it was this difficult.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, good idea,” he said as awkwardly as John felt.

“You want to, right?”

“Do I ever do anything I don’t want to?”

True. “Okay.”

Sherlock walked past him, sat on the sofa, and patted the cushion next to him.

John found the gesture oddly sweet, and he felt some of his nerves die down. Some of them. He sat next to Sherlock, putting a hand on his knee, rubbing his thumb comfortingly.

Sherlock gazed at him very seriously all of a sudden, his light eyes intense, but not harsh. “John,” he rumbled.

“Yeah?” He wanted to devour him, and felt frustrated when the thought scared him.

“I love you,” he stated simply.

John’s heart thumped painfully. He wanted to adore Sherlock’s body so badly. “I love you, too,” he said roughly. Their lips met halfway in a kiss, John’s grip on his knee tightening. They were kissing hard, mouths opening. Sherlock’s lips were soft and warm, and he turned his head slightly to the side, deepening the kiss. John wanted to move his hand off his knee, move it somewhere else--anywhere, just somewhere more intimate and he hated that he felt apprehensive. He wanted to run his hands over Sherlock’s body, feel every last bit of his skin, fully get to know the man he’d loved for so long.

Suddenly, the image of their first night on a case flashed behind John’s eyes: Sherlock so young, no lines on his face yet, gently but firmly saying, _“John, while I’m flattered by your interest, I consider myself married to my work--”_

The memory made John gasp and his heart clench, and Sherlock made a questioning sound against his mouth. John lifted his hand, curled it around the back of Sherlock’s neck, and brought him closer, kissing him harder and biting down on his bottom lip. Sherlock made a surprised grunt at the sudden roughness, but John was trying too hard to keep it together to notice. He would ask Sherlock about why he said that later, but for right now, he marvelled at how far they had come, that five years ago, Sherlock wouldn’t have been doing this with him. John found himself leaning forward, causing Sherlock to press up against the armrest of the sofa, his legs long spreading and allowing John to settle between them.

John broke the kiss and their lips smacked wetly. He stared down at Sherlock, whose lips were wet and flushed, and his long lashes were fluttering. He thought of Sherlock from the night of Angelo’s again, young and bold and not yet damaged by Moriarty (or Mary), and John’s chest felt heavy as he looked at him.

The space in between Sherlock’s eyebrows crinkled in confusion. “What is it, John?”

John shook his head slowly, finding his voice. “Absolutely nothing.” He sighed, partly because of the ache in his chest, and partly because of how beautiful Sherlock looked. _Focus on the present. You have him now._ Staring into Sherlock’s eyes, John leaned in slowly, and when their lips pressed together, there was a more sensual air around them. He would have killed to have been able to do this, years ago. He had to let go. John kissed him sweetly, alternating between small pecks and long, spine-tingling kisses. He licked into Sherlock’s mouth, shivering upon feeling his hot, wet tongue, and retreated, kissing the corner of his mouth instead.

John wanted to kiss his jaw and neck. He was afraid to just dive in, though. “Can I kiss you more?” John asked, and he was surprised by how low his voice was. “Can I kiss your neck?”

As if he were self-conscious, Sherlock gulped. “Yes,” he rasped out. “I want you to.”

John started at his jaw, attaching his lips to the stubble that Sherlock hadn’t shaved away that morning, nipping at his skin. He moved down to his long neck, right below his jawline, and pressed open-mouthed kisses on Sherlock’s pulse, which fluttered against his lips. His hands were on either side of Sherlock on the cushions, and his palms itched with the urge to touch him.

Sherlock’s neck craned up, silently asking John to explore more. John kissed further down his neck, near his collarbone, and let his tongue come out and lick a wet stripe across his skin. He felt Sherlock’s small moan on his lips, and John paused when he felt his cock stir. Should he stop and calm himself down?

“John,” Sherlock said breathlessly above him, “John…” He trailed off, seemingly afraid to ask for more.

John figured that he could put his own dilemma aside. If Sherlock wanted more, he was going to get more. As soon as he started kissing him again, Sherlock grunted, and John knew he made the right choice. He kissed the side of his neck, nipping it, teasing the skin with his tongue and teeth (god, he was getting hard. _Keep it together_ ). John lowered himself on his elbows so their chests were touching, and he felt the sharp, short movements of Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s large hands gripped John’s hair, as if he were anticipating that John was thinking about stopping again.

John wanted to know if Sherlock’s nipples were getting hard, and what sounds he would make if John licked them. He gave a full body shiver, and Sherlock’s fingers tightened in his hair.

Maybe just a little touch. Shifting his weight and lifting up, his moved one of his hands from the sofa cushion to Sherlock’s chest, hand brushing over where he estimated his nipple to be as John started kissing his jaw again. Through the silky material of his dress shirt, John felt it when one of his thumbs ran over a hardened nipple.

Sherlock jerked beneath him and John immediately lifted his head. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock looked shocked, face red and lips parted, blinking and swallowing wordlessly.

His stomach prickled with anxiety. “Sherlock, please.”

He looked helpless. “It’s...it’s…” His hands, which had fallen from John’s hair, gripped his shoulders. “You…”

John had no idea whether he should have been aroused or concerned by his response. “You want me to keep going?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Okay,” John said, but he didn’t feel much better. He knew Sherlock was inexperienced, but he didn’t exactly know what to make of his demeanour at the moment. “Tell me when to stop, okay? I’m not going to do anything crazy.”

Sherlock nodded again, looking no less winded.

The mood wasn’t nearly as sexy as it was thirty seconds ago, so he decided to kiss Sherlock’s lips instead of his neck, thinking that maybe he (maybe _both_ of them) could use some reassurance. _Sex doesn’t alarm me,_ Sherlock had said to Mycroft at Buckingham Palace. _Bullshit,_ John thought. Not that he blamed Sherlock, of course. He probably had a clinical, detached view of sex back then, not knowing how much emotion could play into the situation. John knew that emotion could have a huge impact on sex, but knowing that and experiencing it were two different things, and he didn’t feel that much more confident than Sherlock.

John kissed him tenderly as his thumb ran over Sherlock’s nipple, rubbing it in small circles. Sherlock’s legs squirmed beside him and he breathed a short, harsh breath into John’s mouth. John thought that rubbing him through his shirt was getting a little awkward, and must have felt kind of weird, so he took the risk of unbuttoning a couple buttons, not going any further, just enough to slip his hand inside and feel the hot, moist skin on his fingers (he was sweating quite a bit. Sherlock must have been getting pretty worked up).

John softened their kisses to a gentle caress of their lips, and he found that he, himself, was breathing rather quickly. The pad of his thumb touched Sherlock’s bare nipple, and they both gasped. It was so simple, so vanilla, but for fuck’s sake, he was touching one of the parts Sherlock kept hidden away, and going by his strangled moan, he was enjoying it. They weren’t kissing anymore, just breathing hard into each other’s open mouths. Sherlock’s eyes were shut and his brow was furrowed, almost looking pained as John rolled the hard nub between his fingers.

John’s cock was throbbing in his jeans, and he clenched his jaw, trying not to thrust his hips into Sherlock’s. _Control yourself. Don’t scare him off._ John had to close his eyes, or else he was going to get harder by looking at Sherlock’s (fucking gorgeous) face. He couldn’t even try to look down and see if Sherlock were anything other than flaccid, or he was going to lose his mind. He wondered how Sherlock would react to his nipples being licked, and John cursed inwardly when he felt himself get harder. _Calm the fuck down!_

“Sher?” he asked hoarsely, opening his eyes. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock opened his eyes, his pupils blown wide and irises a deep green. His fringe was sticking to his forehead. “John?”

It felt like his heart was shaking. “Can I kiss you there?”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. “Yes,” he whispered.

John kissed his red lips, unbuttoning his shirt down to his abdomen, thinking that having some buttons fastened would make him feel a little less vulnerable. John quickly kissed down his chin, neck, chest, and placed his mouth over the nipple he had been teasing, and it felt absolutely surreal.

“Ah!” Sherlock choked out, legs squirming, voice turning high.

John slowly lapped, tongue circling and then running over the hard nub beneath his lips. He felt Sherlock’s chest move up and down as he gasped for air above him. John didn’t know Sherlock was capable of sounding this _needy,_ and when he gently teethed at his nipple, he brought up one of his hands to begin to tease the other.

Suddenly, Sherlock shouted and his back arched, and John was afraid that he had hurt him.

John shot up, an apology on his tongue, but stopped when he saw Sherlock’s face. His mouth was open, eyes screwed shut and eyebrows drawn together. It was...orgasmic. Wait a minute. _Oh my god. Did he just?!_

Sherlock collapsed back on the sofa, panting. It only took a second for a deep, shameful blush to set his face on fire, his kiss-swollen lips turning down into a grimace, his eyes looking anywhere but John.

John didn’t know what to say. He was utterly shocked--he was so caught up in his own head that he hadn’t known Sherlock was even hard--but Sherlock coming without having his cock touched even once was so, so fucking hot. Or, it would have been, if Sherlock didn’t look like he wanted to run away and hide.

John’s heart twisted. “Sherlock--”

“I want to get up,” Sherlock said, monotone.

John sat back, giving him room, lead dropping into his stomach when Sherlock sat up as quickly as he could and walked briskly into the bathroom.

John put his head in his hands. Great. Just fucking great. He should have controlled his urges and stuck to kissing his lips and neck. He didn’t know Sherlock would, or could, come by that alone. Sherlock must have been mortified. It was, to John’s knowledge, his first orgasm in front of another person, and that itself could be embarrassing, but he also knew that coming in his pants had to have hurt his pride. He wanted to comfort Sherlock and tell him that, really, it was all fine, and he shouldn’t be embarrassed, but feared that talking to him now would only make things worse.

No. He had to go talk to him. The majority of their problems came from not talking. John got up, still aroused, but significantly less hard from seeing Sherlock upset, and walked to the closed bathroom door. He knocked lightly.

“Sherlock?”

Silence from the other side of the door.

John sighed heavily. “Please come out.” More silence, and John insisted, “Please, Sherlock.”

“You know how to open a door,” Sherlock said from inside the bathroom. He was defensive. He was certainly upset. But, he was willing to let John in.

John opened the door and found Sherlock sitting on top of the lid of the toilet, shirt buttoned up, and in a different pair of trousers that he must have gotten from his room. _Well, that settles that…_ Sherlock’s face was closed-off, and John absolutely did not want to do this. He wouldn’t let Sherlock shut himself down again over something as stupid as an unexpected orgasm. “Sherlock,” he said sternly, “stop this.”

For a second, the cold mask cracked in surprise, but went back in its place. “What are you going on about?”

“Don’t do this,” John said, and he sounded tired this time. “Please. I don’t want us to fall apart when we’ve only just started.”

To John’s immense relief, the ice melted from Sherlock’s face. “John, no. I don’t want that, either.”

“Then why’d you run away?” John asked, although he knew the answer.

Sherlock looked down at the tile on the floor. “It was...not good. Me. _I_ wasn’t good.”

“Sherlock, you were fine. It really wasn’t a big deal. I just wish you had told me you were--close.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “It took me by surprise too,” he said, a tinge of humor in his voice.

John laughed a little. “Yeah, well.” He cleared his throat. “For the record, I thought it was sexy.”

Sherlock grinned. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

They stared at each other.

John shook his head. “God, Sherlock, why is everything so bloody difficult for us?”

“I believe it has something to do with the amount of restraint we put on ourselves for the greater part of our relationship.”

John snorted. “Yeah, I was thinking the same.”

Sherlock stood up, sighing. “Were you really not bothered?”

“Not at all, Sherlock. Trust me.”

He looked calmer now. “Okay. I was thinking about us, and how we’re unaccustomed to touching each other in a sensual matter.”

“That’s a proper way to put it.”

Sherlock glared at him. “As I was saying, I think we need to touch each other.” His cheeks turned pink. “Slowly, I mean, to ease into it. Preferably undressed.”

John absorbed this. If they were both on the same page and ready to touch each other, then maybe it would be easier. It was the spontaneous snogging sessions which seemed to catch them off guard, but if they both went to bed with the intent to have sex, and got used to touching each other beforehand, then the bulk of their problems could go away. “You’re saying we should get naked, go to bed, and explore each other’s bodies?”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“You’re brilliant.”

* * *

 

Sherlock shut the bedroom door behind him. “I suppose we should undress now?”

John cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. I guess we should.”

They stood there with their arms by their sides.

John’s palms were sweating. The thought of taking off Sherlock’s clothes--it felt like unwrapping a present he wasn’t allowed to open. But they needed to get past this. “We could--I dunno--turn around and undress, so it’s less awkward.” Undressing in front of another man for the first time wouldn’t exactly be helped by being under the scrutinizing gaze of Sherlock Holmes, John thought.

“Okay,” Sherlock said, and he turned around.

John turned around, too. He took off his jumper and vest, feeling the tips of his ears begin to burn, and swallowed thickly when he took off his jeans and pants. He was a little hard, and the knowledge that Sherlock was right behind him, getting naked, made a fresh wave of arousal flood south. “Can I turn around?” John asked.

“Yes.”

They both turned around and faced each other.

Sherlock was standing there with his hands folded in front of his penis, not trying to hide himself, but perhaps a subconscious gesture. John saw the trail of thin hair from the bottom of his navel thicken as it reached lower, and over the barrier of his large hands, John could see the beginning of his cock. John’s eyes landed on a couple fading, yellowing bruises on Sherlock’s ribs, where he had kicked him, and it felt like someone twisted a knife in his gut. _Forgive yourself,_ Sherlock’s voice told him in his head, but it was difficult to see the mark he left on his beautiful body.

Sherlock was openly staring at him, lips parted, eyes scanning his body rapidly.

John took a couple steps forward and gently placed his hand over the healing bruises, not saying anything because he knew Sherlock would understand.

He did. Sherlock placed his hand over John’s, mutely shaking his head, telling him not to dwell on it.

John’s hand slid up to his chest, resting over his heart. He looked up, and Sherlock’s eyes were dark from the low light of their room. His gaze was intense. John’s heart throbbed fiercely, and though he thought it was impossible, he thought he loved Sherlock now more than ever. He ran his hand over the warm skin of Sherlock’ chest and stomach.

“You still need to put on a couple pounds,” he murmured, rubbing his stomach.

Sherlock made a neutral sound in his throat, his eyes still roaming over John’s body.

John grinned. “Like what you see?” he joked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said seriously. “I always knew your body had to be like the rest of you.”

John cocked his head to the side curiously. “Right. What’s that mean?”

Sherlock’s warm hands tentatively held his bare hips, and began to stroke his sides slowly. “Nothing out of the ordinary at a first glance, but upon further examination, captivating. Well, at least to me,” he amended.

John didn’t know what to say. “‘Captivating’ isn’t a term people usually associate with a body.”

“I mean it as a good thing.”

“I know you do.”

Sherlock huffed in frustration. “What I mean to say is that your body is average, but I find it quite…” He swallowed. “Fit. Aesthetically pleasing. It perfectly suits you. It’s rather beautiful.”

No amount of poetry could compare to Sherlock’s halting compliments. Mary never said he was beautiful. No. He wasn’t going to think about her anymore. Sherlock had him now. He felt sort of badly for Sherlock, because he wanted to tell John how he felt, but it was difficult for him to express it freely. John’s goal was that one day, there would be zero hesitation from either of them.

“Thank you,” he told Sherlock, kissing the center of his chest chastely. “That’s kind of you, Sherlock.”

“It’s not kind if it’s the truth,” Sherlock said.

 _That makes it sweeter,_ John wanted to say, but knew Sherlock wouldn’t get it. He didn’t understand how romantic he was. It was endearing. His hand petted Sherlock’s chest and belly, getting used to touching his warm, naked skin. It was ridiculous, because Sherlock’s body felt no different from anyone else’s (what had he been expecting?), but it was _Sherlock_ he was touching, and he knew that no one had ever touched him like this before. John saw a pink flush bloom on his chest, travel up his neck, and settle on his cheekbones. He was so sensitive, and, _fuck,_ silently begging to be loved, but the world was so cruel to him for so long. John felt a wave of compassion wash over him, and he sighed harshly and kissed Sherlock hard on the mouth.

Sherlock made a little sound of surprise, his hands halting on John’s sides.

John pulled back, heart thumping. He could feel the heat of Sherlock’s cheeks on his face. “We should’ve done this a long time ago,” he murmured.

Sherlock stiffened. “John, please--”

“I know,” he said. “I’m not dwelling on it, really. I’m just saying, ’cause…” He cleared his throat. “I wish you could have felt loved sooner.”

Sherlock’s lips wobbled, the bottom one pouting. “You always made me feel that way. No one ever made me feel...” His looked down, a crease forming between his eyebrows, seeming to struggle internally. He looked up from under his lashes. “You made me feel worthy.”

“Of what?”

“Living.”

John kissed him deeply, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling Sherlock down to diminish their height difference. His throat was tight and the corners of his eyes were stinging, and he hated thinking of how alone and miserable Sherlock must have been before that fateful day in St. Bart’s. “It’s an honor to love you,” John whispered against his lips, and it occurred to him that he hadn’t said anything that cheesy since the emails to his old girlfriends, but he really meant this. He felt it so deeply, he felt like he could split in two.

Sherlock whined softly, taking John’s bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling it gently. He ended the kiss, looking up at John shyly from beneath his lashes. He seemed to remember that his hands were on John’s sides, and he slid them to his back, seeming like he didn’t quite know what to do. He looked down and stared at John’s penis.

John flushed, but now that Sherlock’s hands were on his body and not covering his groin, John looked down. His breath hitched when he saw Sherlock’s cock, long and partially erect. They were staring at each other’s cocks like they had never seen another penis before (and maybe that was true for Sherlock), until John decided this was rather ridiculous.

A part of him just wanted to wrap his hand around Sherlock’s cock and start jerking him off, but that would have been too abrupt. He kissed Sherlock’s throat, giving his sensitive skin long, wet sucks as his hands slid down to his buttocks, squeezing lightly and experimentally.

Sherlock gasped and shook, his fingers digging into John’s hips. His grip loosened, seeming to come to his senses, and one of his hands cupped John’s erection.

John almost jumped, completely surprised (and seriously pleased), but Sherlock took it the wrong way.

His hand drew back as if he had touched fire, horror in his eyes. “Sorry! I thought--”

“No, no, no,” John placed his finger over Sherlock’s lips. “No, I was just surprised. You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise.” _Shit._

Sherlock lowered his hand. “Oh.”

This wasn’t working. Why the fuck did this have to be so difficult? John sighed harshly through his nose. He had to raise himself up a bit, but he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, closing his eyes. “Sherlock?”

“John?” He spoke quietly, his voice barely audible, his breath a soft, warm, rush on John’s face.

He hesitated for a moment, having never said these words to a man before. “I want you to touch me. Don’t--don’t hesitate. Do it.”

John could feel Sherlock’s long eyelashes flutter against his skin. “I don’t know how,” he admitted shamefully.

It was rare for Sherlock to say he didn’t know how to do something, and John felt a wave of sympathy for him. “Yeah, you do. When I was really upset, crying in our sitting room like an idiot, you knew just what to do.” Keeping their foreheads close, he gripped and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re doing fine.”

It struck John that it had been a long time since he had taken care of Sherlock, properly, at least. Sherlock spent so much time caring for him, doing anything in the world to make him happy--John wanted to repay him. If all of this made Sherlock nervous, then John would just have to see him through it. He wanted their first real time together (he wasn’t sure of Sherlock’s incident on the sofa really counted) to be _good_ , not filled with jitters. _Yeah, I can do this,_ John thought to himself. While it had been buried beneath his own melodrama, the instinct to care for Sherlock was in his blood.

“Want me to touch you?” John asked, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “You can start touching whenever you feel like, okay? I just really want to touch you. Please.”

Sherlock kissed him on the mouth. “Okay,” he said meekly against his lips.

John gulped. He buried his nose into Sherlock’s curls by his ear. “Want me to touch you here?” he asked, reaching down and cupping Sherlock’s cock, which jumped in his hand.

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose, and John wished he could see his face. He placed a small kiss on the shell of his ear.

“Yes,” Sherlock rasped.

John gave him a couple experimental strokes, almost moaning, himself, when he felt Sherlock harden beneath his hand, and _god,_ what a surreal feeling that was. There he was, standing there with Sherlock Holmes’ dick in his hand. He almost laughed, but knew that would have hurt Sherlock’s feelings, so he hid his smirk in his curls. He tightened his grip a little, feeling Sherlock’s chest expand in a gasp rather than hearing it. John felt like he was starting to get into a rhythm--he had stroked his own cock plenty of times, so this wasn’t terribly difficult--and worked Sherlock to full hardness.

Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulders, squeezing them hard, head dropping onto one of them, as if clinging to a buoy in the rough waters of a sea. He was so bloody sensitive, and hearing the little, strained breaths coming from his mouth and feeling them puff hot onto his skin made John want to squeeze himself for some relief, but he had to take care of Sherlock right now. Sherlock’s fingernails were clawing into his skin, which was rather impressive, considering he kept them short, John thought. His back was heaving with each heavy breath, and if he weren’t busy doing other things, John would have held him.

Still, John asked, “You okay?”

“I’m more than okay,” Sherlock said, moving his face so it was buried into the crook of John’s neck. “John,” he moaned into his neck, voice deep and rumbling into John’s bones.

John held back a moan of his own and stroked Sherlock faster, from root to tip, rubbing his thumb over the head. Sherlock let out a small whimper, seemed to catch himself, and buried his face even further into John’s skin, and John could feel the heat from his blush.

John bit his lip with a groan, his own cock aching and begging to be touched. He didn’t want to push Sherlock into touching him, but maybe, if they were on the bed, he could position himself to rut against Sherlock a bit. He really didn’t care about looking like a dog in heat at this point. He _needed_ some relief. “Sherlock,” he said into his hair, “let’s go on the bed, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, lifting his head to kiss him briefly.

John figured Sherlock would want to more or less be in the same position they were, so he quickly went to the bed and sat against the headboard, holding out his arms so Sherlock could go on top of him and hide his face again, if he wanted to.

The image of Sherlock, eyes hazy, fringe sticking to his forehead, lips red and plump, and his cock completely erect, barreling towards John and climbing on top of him, would not leave John’s memory for a very long time.

“John,” Sherlock whispered into his neck, putting his legs on either side of his body and clutching his shoulders again, _“John.”_

John wrapped his hand around Sherlock again, although it was a little more difficult this time due to the angle, but he managed. His cock gave a sympathetic throb when he felt Sherlock start to drip precome. He was so close already. He wondered how long Sherlock would last with his cock inside of him, and John groaned and thrust his hips. That would _definitely_ have to wait for another day.

While pumping Sherlock, John slid his other hand down his lower back, past his arse, and cupped his bollocks. Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back, and John could see that his eyes were closed tightly, a severe crinkle between his eyebrows, lips parted into a perfect heart shape. John’s hips jerked up, his erection brushing against Sherlock’s abdomen. He tugged at Sherlock’s sack, and his eyes flew open.

“John!” he said urgently, pushing himself up by John’s shoulders. “John, I think it’s going to happen again.”

John felt like he was going to fucking burst just by looking at him. “What? You’re gonna come?” He pressed his thumb against Sherlock’s perineum.

Sherlock’s entire body stiffened, his eyes widened, and John felt his balls tighten. With a long, deep _uhhhhh,_ Sherlock came, his cock spurting hot release onto John’s stomach and chest.

John groaned in agony, head falling back against the headboard, hips thrusting and desperately trying to rut against Sherlock.

Not a single thing could have overridden his lust by that point, and he begged, “Sherlock, please touch me, _please._ You’ll do fine, I know it, please touch me.”

Sherlock was gulping for air, but he sat up a bit and _(finally, thank Christ!)_ wrapped his long fingers around John’s rock hard erection. He curled his hand. “Want to thrust into my hand?” Sherlock asked, voice hoarse and two spots of red staining his cheeks. “It’ll create the--” he still seemed dazed, “the, um, feeling like you’re thrusting into--”

“God, you don’t have to explain it,” John couldn’t help but laugh. “I get it, you’re saying I should fuck your hand.” And what a great idea that was. John allowed himself to go wild, fucking into the warm, tight tunnel of Sherlock’s large hand, and he had been worked up for so long that he knew it wouldn’t take long. Sherlock kissed him, his free hand curling around the back of John’s neck. John kissed back, accidentally biting Sherlock’s lip when one thrust felt particularly good, but he didn’t seem to care.

Sherlock kissed his cheek and nuzzled his ear, sighing happily. “Come on, John, let go.”

John thrust into his hand four more times, and his back arched, moaning into Sherlock’s mouth as he came on his hand. He threw his arm over his eyes, a little embarrassed because all it really took was Sherlock telling him to let go for him to spurt like a bloody fire hose, and it occurred to him how ridiculous they were, with Sherlock coming in his pants on the sofa, them both being so awkward about it, only to get their heads out of their respective arses and give each other handjobs.

John giggled, removing his arm from his face, and saw a perplexed Sherlock. Feeling light and playful, he pinched his cheek. “I love you.”

Sherlock’s comically befuddled expression turned soft and pleased. “I love you, too.” He crawled off John and sat next to him on the bed. He looked at his hand, covered with John’s release, and wiped it on the duvet.

“Sherlock,” John grimaced, “that’s disgusting.”

“Says the man with semen on his abdomen.”

John looked down. “Oh, yeah.” He grabbed a few tissues from the box on the bedside table and wiped himself off, throwing the used tissues on the floor.

“That’s sanitary,” Sherlock said.

“Shut up,” John kissed his cheekbone.

Sherlock looked peaceful, and it warmed John’s heart. He yawned, nose scrunching up, getting multiple chins.

John snorted. “Tired, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and lay down on his side, facing away from John.

For the first time, John got a perfect view of his arse. “Ooo, lovely,” he smacked one of his cheeks.

Sherlock flipped back over, trying to scowl, but his lips were quivering from a smile.

“Faker,” John lay down next to him on his stomach, reaching out and taking hold of Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock gave up the facade and his eyes fluttered closed. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“Hm? For what?”

“All of that.”

“It was just a handjob--”

“No, it wasn’t,” he interrupted, eyes still closed. “It was more than that, and you know it.”

John ran his thumb over the top of his hand. “Of course it was more. It’s just, you don’t have to thank me for loving you.”

Sherlock had a tiny smile on his lips and he hummed. “How long is Rosie down with Mrs. Hudson?”

“Until six.”

“Good. I’m tired.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Sherlock crawled on top of John’s back.

“Hey, you’re heavy!” John laughed. “It’s hot, too!”

“I love you,” Sherlock said instead, his tone small and sweet.

Hell, John wasn’t going to make him get off. “I love you, too, Sherlock,” he said sincerely. “I really, really do.” He closed his eyes, and the weight of Sherlock on his back did feel nice. “I’m glad we finally did that. It was like a final barrier was broken. That’s how it felt on my end, anyway.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock said, reaching down and linking their fingers together. “I had been afraid, because I had never done anything like that before, and, well, with us…” He trailed off.

“I know,” John said. “With us, it’s always complicated.”

“Mhm.”

John really liked the feeling of his deep rumbles against his back. It was soothing, and a little bit arousing ( _Calm down, you just came_ ).

“But,” Sherlock said sleepily, “things always work out for us in the end, don’t they?”

John swallowed, chest feeling warm and tight. If Sherlock had said that same sentence to him a few weeks ago, John would have disagreed completely, saying everything always went wrong for him. But now? Now, he was in bed with the love of his life, with his baby daughter playing with his landlady--no--friend, downstairs. It _was_ a good life now, and it was going to stay that way. He’d make sure of it.

John squeezed his fingers. “Yeah. Yeah, they really do, don’t they?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyyyyyyy lol. This story was really fun to write, and I hope you enjoyed it. I do apologize for taking long to get this second part out to you, but the fandom has been bumming me out, man, so it's been difficult to find motivation. But I'll be fine. And you will be too :)
> 
> EDIT 6/5/17: YOOOOOO there is now fanart for this fic! Khorazir drew [THIS PICTURE](https://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/161475146463/inspired-by-repentance-by-obsessivelollipoplalala) for the part of this chapter where John is holding and kissing Sherlock as he plays the violin. It's a beautiful picture, so please check it out!


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